A Poetic Fishing License
Is it the poet’s job to preserve yore,
To make up rhymes for Icarus and Thor?
I have never learned to read nor speak
In either ancient Latin or Greek.
And of my knowledge in bygone Old Norse
Can be said it is infinitely worse.
It is my good luck to have translations
Created by the former generations.
And for you, there’s Google to draw upon
When a myth comes from an old pantheon.
Need you know Helios from Apollo
When one is better the rhyme to follow?
Maybe my little secret I’ll tell you --
I fight through reading many poets too.
Greco-Roman, Norse, Chinese, or Bible,
With names so exotically tribal,
Without my ready wikipedia
They go in and out like diarrhea.
So maybe, poets, it isn’t our duty
To create such esoteric beauty.
Forgive the past poets and their old ways
And use the language we use nowadays.
Although, in a century, perhaps two,
They will need to look up what you wrote too.
Grandfather’s Confession
Humility is a crutch
From which I don’t suffer much.
I think others feel more pain
When I am so humbly vain.
I rap people on the shins
As my confession begins.
How will I feel my frisson
If there are none to listen?
Frisson is a thrill of fear --
In case you didn’t know, my dear.
It is not humble to brag --
It just fell out of my bag.
In my virtue I take pride --
Honest men have naught to hide.
But I’m ready to concede,
It’s not the top of my creed.
None more misled than am I
With how truth may pass me by.
The tale is so much more fun
Than what was actually done.
So if you do not believe
All the stories that I weave,
Well. that will still be alright.
You just go to sleep tonight.
Consumer’s Obligation
Many productive people toil each day
To fill our world with products of their work.
Should we feel a need to meet them midway
And do not our consumer’s duty shirk?
For what a high pile might the world become
Filled with neglected stuff from busy folks.
How soon would civilizations succumb
If none uses what industry evokes?
Perhaps you think I do nothing each day
To help our fellows in the vast mankind.
But that suggestion I strongly gainsay --
I digest plenty in stomach and mind.
But although that which I run through my guts
Soon is ready to be recycled elsewhere,
What I watch and read my purpose rebuts
And passes through me with no sign of wear.
I may even act to magnify it
And increase the load on our burdened world.
My fancy may be provoked by some wit
And idle thoughts into a response swirled.
So, I ask, if you do not mind too much,
When the productive twitch overwhelms me
And I cannot stop myself, then as such,
Forgive me for adding to your debris.
My Summer Smorgasbord
In the back I grow apples for the deer --
They inspect and expect these treats each year.
From each fruit, their first two bites are the best --
They leave what is left for my other guests.
I say my blueberries are not yet blue,
But some critters will think so before I do.
Trees and plants we think are there to landscape,
Some neighbors think are as tasty as grape.
I won’t spend time or money to plant seed
Or raise veggies that I would have to weed.
But if wild friends like perennial crops,
I’m happy whenever one comes and shops.
The Eagle Has Landed (and Left)
We went to the moon today,
‘Tho fifty-two years ago.
It’s still just as far away
As a man has put his toe.
Twenty-four circled the moon,
Ten lunanauts still survive,
All may be gone rather soon --
The youngest is eighty-five.
Twelve Apollo crew went below
And they took a stroll around.
Some photos, some rocks to stow,
And then they left lunar ground.
When will we go back again,
‘Tho some people just ask why.
Is the moon in our domain
Or is that too far to fly?
A Second Helping?
Billionaires on the moon, a new meme,
Using their cash to fuel their pipe dream.
It’s a race to buy fame
And extend their brand name
Or the latest tax evasion scheme.
My Career as a Scribe
No longer do they ask I take minutes
In the committee meetings I attend.
I guess they did not like to begin its
Next meeting with the verses which I penned.
Or maybe ‘cause I left some motion out
When for a key word I could find no rhyme.
Reading of minutes preceded a shout
That how I record was a waste of time.
Now I sit and just quietly doodle,
While others take assiduous notes.
With luck I won’t even use my noodle,
And I can pay no attention to votes.
Carnival Sins: More Ogdenish Limicks
Or Are They Just Nashty?
If you’re a manatee,
May you have vanity?
Seaweed for each meal
Would steal my sanity.
Where does lion keep his pride?
Is it gals at his side?
Most teens can tell you,
It’s manely in his hide.
Does a mule ever lust
For an ass or a bust?
Sterile is not fun --
It seems to be unjust.
Does the sloth mean to sin
When too slow to begin?
Maybe he just thinks
Exercise makes too thin.
Watch out for the giraffe
When moved by fearsome wrath.
One kick from above
Will knock you off your path.
Chimp has one but wants two,
Greedy he steals from you.
He drops what he has
And holds less when he’s through.
When whale opens his maw,
He sucks all into his craw.
To leave isn’t easy --
You can just ask Jonaw.
Ode to Ogden
Nash wrote four line limicks --
The change gave him some kicks.
Some thought them too short
But less rhyme made them quicks.
When I use Ogden’s form,
With less than is my norm,
Thoughts must be kept small --
Just a minor brainstorm.
But it’s good exercise
To hold thoughts down in size.
Concise sounds like smart
When none knows otherwise.
Over What Hill
I may be over the hill, heading down,
Although it still looks fairly far to town.
Sometimes I take a moment, a brief stop,
To wonder when it was I was on top.
So many ups and their offsetting downs
Pass by unremarked as we go our rounds.
They are simply what there is at that time --
You could buy a dozen for just a dime.
We don’t build a road, jumping peak to peak,
But it’s the easy valley path we seek.
So to build a life, maybe it’s the same --
Rate by how well, not high, we play the game.
Likely I have never been to the top,
But that will not make all my life a flop.
There will still be small bumps in my descent
To test old knees ‘fore I’m completely spent.
Star-Spangled Banter
Hey, over there. Did you see that bright flare?
All through the night, ‘twas such an awful fight.
Who’s outta sorts, bombarding some old fort?
What is their beef, to give us so much grief?
Whoa, look at that, it came through the whole spat!
With stripes and stars, that flag there is still ours.
It didn’t come down, despite bombs all around --
It's in tatters, but some holes don’t matter.
That’s the spirit, you love it or fear it,
But not defeat people who won’t retreat.
They die for cause when other folks might pause.
They will be free whatever cost may be.
So, hoist the flag and let it for us brag,
Don’t tread on us, we’re just too full of cuss,
We will rebound, you cannot keep us down --
Thanks for the shells, we'll make Liberty Bells.
